Rain Dance
by Willow Edmond
Summary: "You heard me," the man said. "Dean isn't here, now. I got tired of Dean, like everyone else does. Dean isn't crazy, Dean just pretends. I don't pretend chit." He motioned to the chair across from him. "Sit down, and drink your coffee, Roman, don't make me tell you again." (WARNING: Dark story. DO NOT READ if you are particularly sensitive to such things. Reviews appreciated.)
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: Dean Ambrose / Jon Moxley and Roman Reigns do not belong to me. They are the property of the WWE and/or the actors/sports entertainers/professional wrestlers that play them. The various other characters you will find in this story are products of my own imagination and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. **

_TRIGGER WARNING: This is not a happy fun-time story, and it gets worse the further in we get. If you are the type that prefers happy, lighter stories, you should stop reading this now. While I love having as many readers as possible, I don't want to upset anyone more than they can handle. That isn't my intent when I write. _

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><p><strong>Rain Dance<strong>

**1:00 am.**

"You got the money?"

The man leaned against the wall and took a long drag of his cigarette as he studied the person standing in front of him. _Kid,_ he thought. _He's b__arely 18 or 19. Thinks he's tough, but he's wet behind the ears._ "I got the money, you got the merchandise?"

The kid nodded. He looked around nervously and once he was assured that they truly were alone in this dark alley, he pulled something out of an inside coat pocket and showed it to the man.

The man studied the item, but didn't touch it. Then, he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of money. He peeled some bills from the outside and handed it to the kid. The kid handed him the item. A reversal situation happened as the kid put the money in the pocket of his jeans, while the man put the newly purchased item in his inner coat pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the kid said, smirking. The only light came from a streetlight at the edge of the ally, and the moon overhead, but the kid paused and shook his head. "Man, you look familiar. Do I know you from someplace?"

The man rolled the filter of the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and in a deft motion, flicked it out of his hands and into a dirty puddle of water, where it hissed and went out instantly. Then, he turned and walked away, not saying another word to the kid.

**1:12 am.**

It was a small shop, a combination coffee shop and bakery, and it was open all night. The man stepped inside, appreciating the warmth, a shield against the cold night air, and the rich smells of cinnamon and coffee that wafted about the place. It had been a long time since he'd been out and free. Sure, there were smells where he'd been, but they were always faint, more the memories of scents rather than actual scents. This was no memory, these scents were alive, real, and so strong you almost tasted them as well as smelled them.

The place was void of other customers and the only other people in there were the baker and his assistant, who were obviously doubling as clerks. The man walked up to the counter. The baker, a heavy set man in his late '40s smiled at him. "Can I help you?"

"Don," the man said, reading his name from the name tag he wore, "If you were going to go and have coffee with a friend at this hour of the night, what would you bring them to go with said coffee?"

"That would depend," Don said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The assistant, a woman who barely looked to be in her '20s, was bouncing from one foot to another, not nervously, but as if she was being forced to wait to do something she really wanted to do. "Is this person awake and waiting for you?"

"No," the man said, a sly grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "He is sound asleep and has no idea I'm coming. But he'll wake up to talk to me, I know he will. So, I would like to reward him for his loyalty." He looked over at the assistant, who was still bouncing lightly on her toes. Her name tag read, 'Fifi,' which he found amusing. _The first Fifi I ever met who wasn't a poodle._ She didn't look like a poodle though, she looked more like one of those long, lean, Afghan hounds.

The man behind the counter continue to stroke his chin, giving this idea grave consideration. Which was making Fifi a little crazy. "Does your friend try to eat healthy?"

"Yes," the man said. "_Very_ healthy. But I don't think that's going to be all that important to him tonight."

Hmm," the baker said, still thinking about this carefully, which the man appreciated. These days it was hard to find someone who cared so deeply about their craft. The man knew that Mr. Baker here really wanted to make sure he, the customer, made the right choice, because it would be a reflection on his skills as both a baker and a salesman. Pride in the simpler things was becoming a valuable commodity in an age where just about anything could be bought frozen then reheated and labeled "Home made." The man doubted that anything frozen had ever come in the door of this place, never mind been used in creating any of the delicacies that were sitting in the display cases.

The assistant, however, was getting too impatient. In a faintly jittery voice, due to the bouncing on her feet, Fifi said to Don-the-baker, "Can you show me how to bake another bun, Don? We made the chocolate ones, I want to learn another type before the morning rush starts."

"As soon as this customer is set," Don said, smiling kindly at Fifi, clearly pleased with her enthusiasm, if not her impatient interrupting. "Why don't you go in back and see if the cinnamon buns are done? You can take them out and put them to cool." He turned his attention back to the man. "Whole wheat oatmeal raisin muffins, if you wish to cater to your friend's desire to eat healthy. The cinnamon-pecan buns if you don't." He pointed to each item in the case.

The man looked from one pastry to the other. "I'll take two of the cinnamon-pecan rolls," he decided. "And two large coffees, regular on both. The Kona blend."

"You have excellent taste," Don remarked as he carefully extracted two of the huge, sticky pastries from the tray and put them into a wax paper bag. Fifi, who had not listened to her boss and gone in the back, decided that if she wasn't going to do as requested, she would at least be helpful, began making up the coffee.

Don rang up the order, while Fifi finished making the coffee and putting it into one of those cardboard trays with the individual compartments for each cup. When Don gave him the total, the man pulled the wad of money, the same one he had used when buying the item from the kid, and peeled a fifty from it. Don handed him his change, a twenty, a ten, and two silver coins. There was a jar by the register marked, "Tips." When Don turned away to see how the coffee was coming, the man tossed it all into the jar. He took the tray with the two coffees diagonal and the bag of pastries between them. "Thanks," he said, as he turned and walked out the door.

**1:28 am.**

There was a tiny park the man cut through to get to his final destination. While most parks were not the safest places to be in the middle of the night, this park was well lit and the man wasn't afraid of much. People didn't mess with him, well, smart people didn't. As he walked along the path, he saw a man and a young boy with a telescope, observing the night sky. The man couldn't help but smile at the scene. They were probably father and son, and this was probably a rare night time treat for the boy being allowed to stay up this late to look at the stars with his father.

Although they were in the edges of the park, far away from the lighted path, as he walked by, the man could still hear the boy asking, "Can your telescope tell me where the sun's gone?"

The man chuckled. "No. The sun isn't gone, Christopher, it's just that right now, in this part of the world, the earth is away from the sun. It will continue turning until morning, when we'll start seeing the sun again."

"Can we look at the sun in the morning with the telescope?" Christopher asked.

By this point, the man was too far away to hear the father's reply, but he was pretty sure the answer was no. The man wasn't a scientist, in fact, no one would ever accuse him of being a scholar of any type, but even he knew you didn't stare into the sun. But, he liked the boy and his father talking like this, there was a complete rightness to the scene, like everything was going the way it should tonight. He was able to get what he needed, the baker and his assistant were happy producing pastry, a boy and his father were looking at stars, having one of those father and son experiences that were supposed to stay with you forever.

It was one hell of a night, and it was only going to get better. It had been so long since he'd been allowed to be out, fully out, and about, but here it was, he was out, he was in charge and he was taking over.

**1:40 am.**

The man walked down the thick pile carpeted halls, This was a nice place, a really nice place. A lot better than the places they used to stay at, back in the days when they were all trying to make it. Those places had industrial strength carpet that always felt slightly sticky, as if through the years, soda had been spilled on every inch of it. And, even though carpet was supposed to muffle footfalls, in those cheaper places, you still heard hallways vibrate as people walked up and down them to the point where you might as well have just left the door open. But not this place, this place the carpet was so plush you could almost lose your shoes in it. And there was a thick padding underneath it to further muffled the noise.

_Yep,_ the man thought, as he walked down these halls, catching his reflection in the mirrors that lined the hallways. _ I've come a long way from the beginning. We all have. Life is good. What's that song I keep hearing in elevators and everywhere else sappy music is played? Good life? It's gonna be a good life? Yeah, I think that's it. That should be my theme song from here until the end. _

He passed the door of the room he was using and went to the one next door. _ We're neighbors,_ he thought, chuckling. _They __used to be roommates, now __we're all__ important enough that we're just neighbors. __ If we had a few years, we'd end up barely knowing each other__. The better life gets, the less we have to deal with anyone. _ Shifting the tray with the coffees and pastry to one hand, he used the other to knock on the door. "C'mon, buddy, c'mon," he called out. "Get up and answer the door,"

When a few seconds passed without a response, he knocked louder, when that didn't work, he knocked even louder. When even that failed to get results within ten seconds, he started kicking at the door.

A few seconds of pounding and kicking, and the man paused to listen. The doors were pretty thick, so it was hard to be sure, but he thought he could hear someone moving around in the room, stumbling as they tried to get their bearings after being deeply asleep. Just to make sure they didn't go back to bed, he kicked and pounded the door again. "Wake up, wake up,_ WAKE UP!"_ he was almost screaming by the time the tall dark haired man opened the door. "'Bout time," he said, softer now, as he pushed his way past the man into the room. "Wakey Wakey, eggs and bakey!" Since this was not a cheap motel room, there was a small kitchen area off to the side with a table and chairs. The man walked over and put the coffee and pastries on the table. "Well, not eggs and bakey, I don't have that. But I do have coffee and cinnamon-pecan rolls."

Roman rubbed his eyes, trying to think through the sleep fog. Mentally, he was still in that warm, comfortable bed he had just left to find out what the banging was about, and now to find out what the lunatic wanted. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and while he was under the covers, that was fine, but now that he was up, the room was pretty chilly. He had a really busy schedule the next day, no make it later today, and he just wanted to get some sleep. The last thing he wanted or needed was coffee and a sugar fix. "Dean," he began. "C'mon..."

The man ignored him, but instead started opening up the cupboards in the kitchen area until he found the few plates the hotel had for their guests. He took two of them and brought them over to the table. Carefully, he pulled the cinnamon rolls from the bag, and placed one on each plate. He put one plate on one side of the table, and the other across from it. "C'mon Romy," he said, "Dig in."

"Dean," Roman said again, hoping to nip this in the bud so he could go back to sleep, "It's-"

The man looked up at him. "Dean's not here," he said, sitting down at the table. "Sit down and drink your coffee."

Roman's brow furrowed. "Say what?"

"You heard me," the man said. "Dean isn't here. Dean is sleeping. I got tired of Dean, just like everyone else did. Dean pretends to be crazy, I don't pretend shit." He motioned to the chair across the table. "Sit down and drink your coffee, Roman, don't make me tell you again."

Roman stared at the man. "Okay then," he said slowly, "So you're not Dean. Who are you, then?"

The man grinned and Roman noted it was a grin he had never seen Dean make before. It was colder, meaner, and didn't reach his eyes. "Jon Moxley. Now that we have the introductions over with, get your ass over here, _sit_ down and _drink_ your motherfucking coffee."

There was something in his voice that made Roman nervous, but he shrugged it off, thinking this had to be some type of weird joke Dean was playing, for reasons that were only clear to him. "Okay, uh, _Jon,_" he began, stressing the name. "It's great to meet you, but I have a really busy day later and I have to get some sleep."

"Nope," Jon said. "Nothing is happening tomorrow. There's been a change of plans and your schedule is now as clear as a bottle of filtered water. We have _all_ night to talk."

"Riiiight," Roman rolled his eyes. "I supposed the Powers that Be called you and said, 'Dean-'"

"-Jon," Jon interrupted, his eyes narrowing.

"No, they don't know you're Jon yet, so they would have called you Dean," Roman said, glaring at him. If this was some joke Dean was playing, it wasn't funny. Roman had been the victim of a lot of Dean's joke in the time he had known him, and he could roll with the best of them, but this was taking things a little too far. If Dean had a problem, he would be there for him, but this just seemed like Dean was bored, unable to sleep, and decided to mess with him for a little amusement. Enough was enough. "So the powers that be said, 'Dean, you want to talk to Roman all night? Go for it. We'll just cancel that radio interview, we'll cancel that visit to the Children's Hospital, and everything else, just so he can shoot the breeze with you, Ambrose."

"Something like that," Jon agreed. "Now, get over here, sit down, and drink your coffee."

"Dean-"

"_-Jon_," Jon snapped.

"_Fine!_" Roman almost shouted the word. "_Jon_ then, okay _Jon_, joke is over, _Jon_, I need some sleep, _Jon_, so take your coffee and your danish and get the heck out of my room, _Jon_."

Jon rose from the table and walked over to where Roman was standing. "Interesting. Somehow you got the impression that drinking this coffee and having conversation I'm looking for is _optional_ on your part."

"It is," Roman said firmly.

That was when Jon decided to show Roman the purchase he had made earlier that night. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the Smith and Wesson 9mm. and pointed it at Roman's head. "No, it isn't," He hissed, leaning so close to Roman's ear that he could feel his breath on his neck. "Now, sit down and drink your motherfucking coffee, and eat your motherfucking pastry, okay?"

_End of Pt I_

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><p><strong><span>Author's Notes:<span> Yeah, this one is creepy. And it will get creepier. When it's finished, I'll have some author's notes to explain how this little tale came to be. This fic is the results of a challenge that was put in front of me, a challenge Betagirl gave me, because I've been blocked lately. **

**Reviews are welcome. Seriously, I love to know who's reading my stuff and what they think of it, even if it's not always favorable. And if you do leave a review, you'll get a shiny thank you note in your in box, or, if you give an anon review, I'll thank you on the author's notes for the next chapter. Why? Because that's just the kind of author I am. I like to make sure my readers that take the time to review know how much I appreciate them.**

**And yes, I am working on the sequel to Chasing the Moonlight. I don't know why, but it's harder going than I thought it would be. I'm hoping that this little trip to the dark side will leave me longing to write something happier and warmer instead. **

**Well, until next time, thanks for reading! **

**Willow**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: Dean Ambrose/Jon Moxley, and Roman Reigns are not my creations or my property. They belong to the WWE and/or the actors/professional wrestlers/sports entertainers that own them. Jessica and Leah (who are but mentioned in this story) are my own creations and any resemblance to them and anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. **

_Trigger Warning:_ _This is not a happy story and gets even grittier from here on out. If dark stories are not your thing, please don't read it. I hate turning away readers, but I don't want to upset anyone who can't handle it either. _

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><p><strong>Rain Dance<strong>

**Part II**

**1:47 am.**

The corners of Jon's mouth curled into a mean smile as Roman sat down at the table. "Good boy," he said, leaning over and dropping a kiss on the top of Roman's head, just as he had done before when they were Shield and they had a particularly brutal match. Then he sat down across from him, putting the gun on the table, right in front of himself. "Drink your coffee, Roman," he said, "It's getting cold."

Roman tried to look calm, but Jon could see the faint trembling of his hand as he raised the coffee cup to his lips and took a sip, then grimaced. "What is this, coffee milk?"

"No, it's just _regular_ coffee," Jon said. "Sugar and cream, you know, like _most_ people drink it."

"I don't like sugar in my coffee," Roman reminded him. "I don't even really like coffee. I only drink it-"

-"Oh shut_ up,_" Jon interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I know, I know, you only drink it when you really have to, otherwise you try to avoid stimulants, blah blah blah blah blah, Roman, you are positively _boring_. I mean, even your _lady_ drinks coffee."

Roman swallowed, looked as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind and took another sip of the coffee. _At this point, I need all the stimulation I can get, _his brain told him._ Because I have no clue what the heck is happening, but it is not good at all._

"That's better," Jon said, nodding in approval as if Roman were but a child who had finally come down off a temper tantrum and was now quiet and docile. "See? This isn't so bad, is it, Roman?"

Roman looked at Jon, then down at the table. "Where'd you get the gun, Jon?" he asked, keeping his voice as low, flat, and emotionless as he could.

"On the streets," Jon said. "A guy like me? Well, a guy like me knows how to get this kind of stuff, Roman. It's one of my... _talents_, so-to-speak. While you were in school, learning reading, writing, geometry, trigonometry, audiometry, and ladies-who-wants-to-be-first-to-suck-my-dick-etry, I was learning how to survive on the streets. And one thing I learned is that guns are _everywhere_. They come in all sizes, colors, and prices. Take this gun for example," He picked up the gun and held it up so Roman could see it. "This is a Smith and Wesson, M&P 9mm, pro series." As he talked, he twisted the gun from side to side, looking almost as if he was trying to sell Roman the piece. "Now, a gun like this in a store would set you back four to six hundred bucks. Might be able to get it for 350 on a sale. On the street? Something like this would set you back anywhere from two hundred and up, depending on how clean it is. I got it for forty bucks." He grinned at Roman. "Of course, it's got a few bodies on it. Do you know what that means?"

Roman had a pretty good idea what it meant, but he also had the feeling Jon/Dean was dying to tell him, so he shook his head.

Jon studied him, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly as if he was trying not to laugh. "Roman, are you... _scared_ of me?"

Roman swallowed. "Well, you are sitting there with a gun and you're telling me what to do. What do _you_ think?"

"Good point," Jon nodded. "Okay, I guess you can be a little bit afraid of me. I don't mind, I kind of like it. But we're not at the point where you have to fall apart and beg, that'll come later. Anyway, as I was saying, this piece has some bodies on it. Which means it's been involved in a few homicides, which means if I get caught with it in my possession, I could end up getting charged with those homicides. The more bodies on a gun, the more its value goes down to criminals. So, this gun has at least a few bodies on it. Might have a whole lot of bodies on it, that punk kid might have ripped me off."

"Aren't you worried about the police finding you with it, then?" Roman asked, taking another drink of coffee. _Drink it all,_ he thought. _Too sweet it might be, but get that caffeine in your system._

"Not really," Jon said calmly, picking up the cinnamon-pecan roll with the hand not holding the gun and taking a bite. "When they find me and this gun together, it will be too late."

Roman stared at him. "Jon, what's the plan here? Why are you doing this?"

Jon shrugged. "Because I'm tired. Try the pastry, Roman, it's really good."

Roman looked at the cinnamon-pecan roll. It looked like a huge, swollen snail with stripes of frosting on it. It was also about the last thing he wanted to put into his mouth, but he had a feeling Jon/Dean wasn't going to let it go. He forced himself to tear off a piece and put it in his mouth.

"What do you think, Roman?" Jon asked, tearing off a piece of his own and eating it.

"It's too sweet," Roman said, trying not to grimace as he chewed. "I don't eat stuff like this, you know that."

"Yes, I know, I know," Jon rolled his eyes, looking disgusted. "Trust me, I've heard it all before from you."

"I'm sorry," Roman sounded slightly defensive. "I just believe that what I put into this body for fuel is just as important as working out is."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Jon said, and with each "yeah" he twisted his wrist so the gun made a slow circle in the air. "We have to take care of our bodies if we want to have a long career in wrestling, blah blah blah blah blah." He started the gun circling again with the "blah" this time. "But Roman, there is a limit to everything, and you cross that limit _all _the time. I know, I know there are a variety of health problems that run in your family, many due to weight issues, blah blah blah, I understand that, I really do, but there is a place, somewhere between _enjoying_ your life and _controlling_ your life and you are very much to the east of the control line. You _never _let yourself go."

"Not true," Roman said, the defensive tone in his voice getting more obvious. "I've eaten sweets before."

"Yeah, but that's _all_ you've done," Jon took another bite of the roll. "You've _eaten_ them. You've never _enjoyed_ them. Take another bite, Roman. You'll find it gets better."

Roman pulled off another piece and forced himself to eat it, taking a sip of the coffee to help rinse away the frosting that was clinging to his teeth. "Not true," he said, when he was sure he could talk without risking spraying Dean/Jon with bits of dough.

"Oh _BULLSHIT!_" Jon roared, then lowered his voice. "Remember your daughter's birthday party?"

Roman nodded, he wasn't likely to forget an occasion that special.

"We all went to be there," Jon continued, as if Roman had said he needed reminding. "You, me... well, Dean me, but you get the point." He paused and looked at Roman, "You _do_ get the point, right?" When Roman nodded, he continued. "Even _Seth_ was there. We all care a lot about your little girl, she's cool. But anyway, we're all there, your extended family, us, everyone, having a party. And your mother brings out the cake. This _beautiful _cake she worked so hard to make. She made the cake by scratch, Roman. By_ scratch! _ No Duncan Hines, no Betty Crocker, she used flour, eggs, and whatever else you need to make that cake. And she made this butter cream frosting, also from scratch. And she had decorated that cake with these flowers and butterflies, and all those things little girls like, all edible and home made, too. It was a beautiful cake. It was almost a shame to cut that cake, because I've seen cakes in bakeries that weren't_ half_ as pretty as that cake. Even the cakes that guy on TV makes didn't look as good as this cake. But, it was a party, so we cut the cake. And we all get a piece, and it's fucking _delicious._ It's like..." He paused looking thoughtful, moving the gun in those lazy circles again, as if it was helping him think. "It was like you could taste the _love_ that went into that cake. Your mother did more than just mix ingredients together, she put part of her _heart_ into that cake. And the pieces, they weren't _that_ big, smaller than average, I'd say. And we're all eating this cake, because it's just the most _delicious_ cake we've ever eaten. Well, _almost_ all of us. One person wasn't eating it, Roman. Can we guess who that was?"

"I ate some!" Roman protested.

"Yeah," Jon shook his head sadly. "You did. You scraped all the frosting off, separated the layers so you could scrape all of that frosting from the middle, then you took about two bites of cake. The moment you thought no one was watching, you threw the rest of it in the trash. This _beautiful _cake, bro. This fucking _beautiful_ cake to celebrate your own daughter's birthday, made by your mother, and you couldn't even eat any of the frosting. Or more than two bites."

"I-I just don't like sweet stuff," Roman said, defending himself. "It makes my teeth hurt."

"Oh, bullshit," Jon said, sitting up straighter and pointing the gun right at Roman's forehead, finger on the trigger. "You're _spoiled_."

Roman gulped, staring at that gun. This wasn't the first gun he'd ever seen in his life, but it was the first time he had spent more than a few seconds staring down the barrel of one. And he'd never dealt with a gun that was being held by a crazy man before now, either. "I-I'm not spoiled," he said, softly.

"Yes you are," Jon disagreed, still pointing that gun. "You're used to having everything. Parents who love you, fiance, daughter, everyone _adores_ you. You could throw that cake away without thinking twice, because there will _always_ be another cake. You'll have a birthday, your fiance will have a birthday, Leah will have a birthday. And your mom will make a cake, every time, because that's what she does. You never have to worry, there will always, always, _ always_ be another cake. " He paused to take a drink from his coffee, gun still pointed at Roman. "Do you know how much _I _wanted a mother who would make me a birthday cake?" He asked. "Just once?" He shook his head. "She bought me a cupcake once for my birthday. A cupcake from the grocery store. She probably bought a six pack of them, but her and her druggy friends ate all but one. But I came home from school and she gave it to me. She said 'Happy Birthday!' and I think a couple of her druggie friends even tried to sing the song to me, but gave up half way through. I didn't care. I l_oved_ it. I ate that cupcake thinking this was the best birthday of my life. I even saved the _wrapper_ to that stupid cupcake for weeks, until the roaches found it. A store bought cupcake meant that much to me, meanwhile, you go throwing away the most _delicious_ fucking cake in the universe, because-" He dropped into a whiny, but not bad imitation of Roman's voice. "Sweets make my teeth hurt."

"Is that what this is all about?" Roman asked, swallowing hard. "You come here and start pointing a gun at me because I don't like _cake_?"

"No," Jon sighed, as if it pained him to have to confess. "That's just part of it. I just want you to have _one_ time where you don't worry, that you just lose control and enjoy yourself. I thought maybe a cinnamon-pecan roll would do it, but I guess I was wrong." He reached over with his free hand and knocked the plate closest to Roman onto the floor where it crashed into pieces, the pastry skidding across the floor of the kitchen area. "It's okay, you don't have to eat it."

Roman didn't like the crash or the sudden violence to the act, but part of him was really glad he wasn't going to have to continue eating that lump of dough, frosting, and sugar. "I like the coffee," Roman said, taking another gulp of that. It was still too sweet, but he was getting used to it and it wasn't_ that_ bad.

"Good, at least you're enjoying _something_." Jon shook his head. "I want you to enjoy it, Roman. I don't want you to worry about the carbs in the sugar or the fat in the cream, because that_ is _cream in there, not milk, not half and half and certainly not..._bean juice_, like you have to give to your daughter. You're not lactose intolerant, so you have no excuse for drinking that disgusting crap. I just want you to enjoy something like a regular human being."

Roman was starting to feel a headache creeping up on him. He wasn't sure if it was from trying to drink the coffee too quickly or the tension and fear he was feeling, and he was feeling both, no doubt about that. He knew Dean Ambrose, and Dean Ambrose would never hurt him. But Jon Moxley? That was another story. He had seen the Moxley promos and matches before. Some of the promos were hysterically funny, but there was always this crazy edge to them, you always wondered if he was faking the crazy, or drawing on it. And Roman wasn't sure that _this_ Jon Moxley was the same in the promotions or if this was an even darker part of Dean's soul that he had decided to name Jon Moxley as well. There was a lot Roman wasn't sure of right now, but one thing he was; this Dark Jon Moxley was running the show and Roman had no clue how to deal with Dark Jon. _ And_ Dark Jon had a gun trained on him and a look that said he not only knew _how_ to use it, but would _like_ using it, too. "Jon, do you have to keep that gun on me?" he finally asked.

Jon stared at him. "Yes, I do. Because if I don't, you'll try to play hero. And I'm not allowing that."

Roman swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this, Jon?" he finally forced himself to ask. "Because from where I sit, pointing a gun at me is _not_ the way to get me to relax and enjoy life."

"That isn't the only reason why I'm here," Jon said, scornfully. "I just want you to have one time when you relax because...well..." He sighed. "I don't know how much longer I can take it, Roman."

"Take what?" Roman asked.

"Everything," Jon started moving the gun around in slow circles again. "Life, _everything_. I'm just tired, you know? Tired of being crazy." He took a swallow of coffee. "I am crazy, we all know that. But it's tiring being crazy."

"Then don't be," Roman said, thinking that this sounded stupid even to his own ears, but not having a clue what else he could say.

"I wish," Jon sighed again. "I tried. When I joined the WWE family, they told me 'You can't be Jon Moxley. That's too wild for us. You need to tone that down.' So, I became Dean Ambrose. That was fine. Dean was a little crazy, but it was this determined crazy, not a crazy-crazy. Now though, Dean isn't enough. 'People want you to be crazy, Dean. We need you to let some of that Moxley into things. Make him PG though, nothing too risque, but crazy? Yeah, we want_ lots_ of crazy.'" He looked over at Roman. "Do you know what its like to find out that the _only_ thing that makes you _anything_ to_ anyone_ is that your psyche is broken?"

"Dean," Roman began, forgetting for a moment.

"-_**JON!**_" Jon roared in reminder. "_Don'_t call me, _Dean_. _Dean_ isn't here. _Dean_ is someplace deep inside where his not-as-crazy ass will be safe and sound until it's time. He'll never know what hit him."

"What is going to hit him?" Roman asked, trying not to look at the gun, one of the hardest things he had ever done, because he was starting to get a weird, sinking feeling, a suspicion of what was going on here, and he didn't like it.

Jon grinned. "Do you _really_ want to know?" Before Roman could answer, he put the gun to his temple.

"No!" Not thinking, Roman found himself lunging to stop what he was afraid was going to happen. Jon pushed himself in his chair out of the way neatly.

"Uh-uh." Jon waggled one finger back and forth, the gun still to his temple. "I warned you, don't play hero. Besides, you should have wanted me to kill myself just then."

"Why would I want that?" Roman asked. _Think, _his mind was screaming, _Think! There has to be a way to get him to stop,__** think!**_

"Because if I had killed myself, you'd be safe," Jon said, calmly. "Oh, sure, you'd have some mess, explaining everything to the cops, it wouldn't be pretty. You'd probably be emotionally scared for life, because you care about Dean and you're that kind of guy. But you'd be alive." He suddenly moved the gun away from his temple and pointed it at Roman again, his expression changing to a sneer. "I can't guarantee you'll make it out of this alive, Roman. I mean, I can pretty much guarantee you _won't._ I'm thinking I might want some company in the afterlife and since you're Dean's best friend, I'm also thinking it should be you."

So there it was, on the table. Even though Roman felt dread rising in his stomach, spreading through him as though it became part of his blood, a small part of him felt relief. At least he knew what the game was. And knowing the game was a step in the right direction of being able to figure out the game, which might even lead to finding a way to _win_ the game. "I don't want to die," he said, keeping his own voice as calm as Jon's had been, trying to make it sound like he was just stating facts, not begging.

"I know," Jon nodded, looking sympathetic. "Nobody wants to die. Well, maybe _I_ do, but I'm crazy. Sane people don't want to die. But, here's the problem, Roman. _ I _have the gun. And I think I want to have someone take this journey with me." His eyes narrowed. "So, _you _don't really have a choice, do you?"

"You don't want to kill me," Roman said, trying to keep his voice as soothing as possible, trying to keep Jon/Dean calm and hoping this would put him off his guard. "You really don't, Jon."

"Why wouldn't I?" Jon asked, refusing to be sedated, but staring at him, still pointing the gun at him. "You're Dean's brother and best friend. I can't think of a better person to go off to the great beyond with. I don't have a best friend or a brother, but since Dean and I are..well, we share the same body, that makes us close in a way, I have to borrow his instead."

"Because I have a daughter," Roman pointed out. "I love her, _you_ love her. You're her Unca Dean. Do you think it'll be good for her to grow up with a father? For her to know she lost her father and her Uncle Dean on the same night, because Uncle Dean decided to go crazy?"

"Jon." Jon corrected.

"_Dean_," Roman stubbornly insisted, part of him praying this wouldn't anger "Jon" into acting on his impulse. "Leah doesn't know about Jon, and if you kill us both, she never will. She'll think her Uncle Dean killed her Daddy. Is that fair to her?"

Jon sighed. "You had to bring that up, didn't you?" He shook his head. "That's pretty unfair. But, I understand, you don't want to die, you'll probably do anything to save your life." He rose from the chair and walked over to Roman. "On your feet, big guy," he said, putting the gun to Roman's head and pulling on his arm to get him to rise.

Feeling the gun at his temple, Roman felt part of him freeze, but he allowed himself to be brought to his feet by "Jon." "Where are we going?" he asked, his voice a thin whisper.

"We have to get your phone," Jon said. "Let's go."

Roman's phone was on his night stand as it always was. Jon had him sit on the bed and stood in front of him, pointing the gun at at Roman's forehead and handed him the phone. "I want you to type a message to your daughter."

"Okay," Roman said, his mouth going dry as he wondered what Jon would have him say.

"Type this: 'Daddy loves you, Leah. Don't ever forget that.'"

Roman's fingers moved on the screen pad, his fingers trembling so badly that a message that might have only taken seconds for him to type at a normal time, took him minutes now. "D-done," he whispered, when he finished.

"Show me," Dean demanded.

Roman turned the phone and held it up so Jon could see it. Jon pressed the gun into Roman's forehead so hard that he could feel the circular dent being made in his skin. Jon read the message and nodded.

"Hit send."

"Jon," Roman whispered, "Don't make me-"

"_HIT __**SEND!**_" Jon roared as he pulled back the gun and slammed it into the side of Roman's head. The move was so quick, so unexpected that Roman was taken totally off guard. He didn't have time to pull back, so the gun hit him squarely and firmly.

That was when Roman went from being merely scared to being terrified. And almost certain he would not make it through the night. Squinting, because he was still seeing stars from the slam to his head, he hit send. "It's not enough," he heard himself whisper.

"What?" Jon asked, glaring at him, gun back to Roman's forehead.

"It's not enough," Roman repeated, a little louder now, even though the stars hadn't subsided yet. "It's a nice message, but it's not enough. She's a little girl, Jon. She's had it rough enough, having a Daddy that isn't home every day like most kids. But she does the best she can." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. If Jon really was going to do what he was threatening, he would do it knowing the truth. "You _know_ her, Jon. She's pretty well adjusted for a kid that knows her Daddy mostly from Skype and the phone. But she's not invincible. This is going to _hurt_ her, this might _destroy_ her. You talk about how you wish you had a family that cared about you growing up. Why do you want to take that away from a little girl who never did anything to you but _love_ you."

"Oh, no fair, Roman," Jon said, a sly smile on his face. "Very good, and _very_ unfair. But, this is where not really being Dean is a lot of help. Because Dean does love your daughter. Seriously, if anything ever happened to you and Jessica and the rest of your family, Dean would have raised that kid, that's how much he loves her. But I'm not Dean, remember? I feel bad and all for your kid, Roman, but I'm more concerned about having my alter ego's best friend in the afterlife."

"What if there is no afterlife?" Roman pointed out. Dean had never claimed to be very religious, he doubted Jon had a lot of faith in a higher power.

"Then we can be worm food together," Jon said, shrugging. "I can deal with that." He grabbed Roman by the arm and hauled him to his feet, pressing the barrel of the gun into his temple again, the same temple that had just been hit with the same gun less than two minutes ago. Roman felt a sharp pain boring into his skull and wondered if that whack had done more damage than he thought. "C'mon, big guy, best friend of mine, let's go out to the balcony."

The door to the balcony was close to the bed. Dean dragged Roman over to it, gun still to his head. "Open it," he ordered.

Roman did as requested, a surge of hope rising in him. Maybe, just _maybe_, someone would be outside, look up, and see what was happening and get help. That thought was quickly followed by another. _Yeah, so the cops come and what? He shoots me and himself before they can do anything? __Great._

As Jon pushed him out on the tiny balcony, the cold night air hit him almost like another whack, but this one to his entire body. He was only wearing boxers, Jon was wearing jeans and a hooded sweat shirt over some type of T-shirt.

Jon looked at him and laughed, a short, barking laugh. "You must be_ freezing_."

"Yes," Roman said. There wasn't any point in disagreeing.

"Florida boy, not used to the cold?" Jon taunted. "Poor, baby."

"Jon, it's probably 30 degrees, maybe even colder," Roman reminded him, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "I'm wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, _anyone_ would be cold in this weather."

"Yeah, but it's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Jon looked up at the night sky, which was remarkably bright and peppered with stars.

"I guess," Roman reluctantly agreed. Jon still had the gun to his temple, still pressing it into his skin and his body didn't know what to be more upset about, the gun or the cold. He looked out into the night, the balcony overlooked the parking lot and he scanned it for people, but it was deserted.

"It should be raining," Jon said, as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. With obvious practice, he was able to get one out of the box and light it with one hand. Then he laughed, a short, barking laugh. "I don't believe it!" he said. "I don't fucking _believe_ it."

"Believe what?" Roman asked, swallowing hard.

"I came out here to have a _smoke_," Jon said, still laughing, but that gun was still pressed just as tight to Roman's temple. "I came _outside_. We're going to be found dead in the morning together, in that hotel room, but I came _out-fucking-side_ to have a smoke. Is that stupid, or what?"

"It's considerate," Roman said, knowing some answer was expected of him, but not wanting to completely agree or disagree. "It's a non smoking room."

"Roman, you're funny," Jon said, but he didn't sound very amused. "Tomorrow, after the cops, after all the bullshit, they are going to need a hazmat team in this room. Because it's going to be a fucking mess. Do you know how much_ mess _blowing your brains out is going to make? And then blowing mine out too? Close range with this gun? Yeah, if your head doesn't just completely explode, a good part of your skull will fracture into a million pieces. Blood and gray matter is going to get everywhere. They'll be picking your teeth out of the carpet for weeks. They aren't going to be able to rent this room for_ weeks_. They may _never_ be able to rent it if word gets out that there was a murder suicide in here. Although, if they let it leak that it was me and you, that might actually draw people_ to_ the room. Fans who think they can talk to the dead or some such shit." He took a deep drag from his cigarette. "It should be raining," he said, repeating what he said when they first came out here.

Part of Roman felt Jon expected him to comment, but he said nothing, not knowing if he should address the state the room would be in when-, (_**If,**_ his thoughts reminded him with a mental scream, _**If!**__ You have to keep hoping there is a way out of this. If not for you, for Leah and Jessica)_ the night was through, or if he was supposed to comment on the lack of rain. He stood there, noticing the bottoms of his feet were so numb he couldn't feel them anymore.

"Have you ever noticed on those old horror movies, whenever the shit hits the fan, someone dies or something, if they show the outside, it's always raining?" Jon asked, almost pleasantly, as if they were just making casual conversation. "Always, always, _always_." He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.

Roman hadn't watched as many old black and white horror movies as Jon had, but it seemed to him he remembered a few without constant rain. But he decided not to bring this up. He just stood there, gun still pressed to his temple, trying not to shiver as the cold air whipped around him, poking at his skin with icy fingers.

"I want rain," Jon said, in an almost pouting voice, as if he expected that merely requesting rain would cause the skies to open. "There should be rain. This is a very,_ very,_ sad night. There should be rain to mark that." He looked up at the heavens. "C'mon Angels and other supreme beings, tonight is the night, _Roman Reigns_ is going to bite the pipe, and leave his beautiful daughter to grow up without a daddy. That's got to be worth a few tears, right?" When the sky continued to be clear, Jon sighed. "Maybe we need to do a rain dance. Do you know a rain dance, Roman?"

Roman shook his head.

"Well, shoot, that's no help," Jon frowned. "Maybe we could make one up?" He stamped his feet a couple times, waving the hand with the cigarette around, but keeping that gun firmly trained on Roman's temple. "Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, c'mon fucking sky and make it rain now," he chanted. Roman didn't move. "Aw, Roman, what's the matter? Don't you wanna rain dance with me?"

"Not really," Roman whispered.

"You are _no_ fun at all," Jon said, but he didn't sound too upset. "Well, I know one way to make it rain." He rolled the end of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and flicked it out over the balcony and into the parking lot. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of money he had used earlier to buy the gun, coffee, and cinnamon-pecan rolls. "This is a _lot_ of money," he said calmly. "When I was growing up, it would have been a motherfucking fortune. But, now? Eh, who cares. I've hit the big time, right?"

"I guess," Roman said. Even though he had drunk the coffee, the cold was starting to make his mind want to shut down. He had been afraid since Jon had pulled out the gun, terrified since Jon smashed his head with it, the adrenaline rush could only last so long and it seemed like they had been out here forever. _ If this keeps up, I wonder if I'll finally be so tired, I won't care anymore? _ he thought. Then, a vision of Leah getting that message in the morning popped into his head. "Daddy loves you, Leah. Don't ever forget that." How happy she would be when Jessica told her, "You have a message from Daddy!" And then what she would think when that same phone rang, but it wouldn't be him, it would be the police. "There's been an accident, Ma'am," He had to stay alert, he had to fight this. No matter what Jon/Dean threw at him, he had to stay awake, stay alert and try to find a way out of this.

"Well, since the angels and the sky aren't being cooperative, I'll have to make it rain all on my own," Jon said. If he noticed Roman's lack of enthusiasm for any of this, he made no mention of it. He took the wad of money, flipping it open with one hand. "Yup, money used to be really important to me," He continued. "Money meant my mom could pay rent. Money meant she could buy drugs. Money meant the lights might be on in that shitty apartment we called home or there might be food in the house. Money was awesome. There was a time in my life when I thought money would solve all my problems and make me a better person. When I thought if only I had lots and lots of money, I'd never be unhappy again. I'd never be scared, never be worried, life would be great, if only I had the cash. You know what?"

"What?" He didn't want to whisper, but he just couldn't make his voice any louder. It was like the cold and the fear was eating at his voice. Roman wondered if soon enough he'd be unable to speak at all, only mouth words. And if that did happen, how would Jon react to that?

"I got the cash, but the happiness isn't there. The fear didn't leave completely, and I still worry. Yeah, I've got money now," Jon said, shaking his head. "But no matter how much money you give me, I always _have_ been, and always _will_ be, a scared little ghetto rat who grew up in the projects." As he spoke, his voice rose, not just in anger at himself, but in sorrow too. And he pressed that gun further into Roman's temple. "It's not fair," He exclaimed, "It's not fucking _fair!_ I did everything I could to get away from that. I left _home_, I got my _GED_. I worked my ass off to be not just a wrestler, but a damned good one. I made it to the big time, WWE. I got the money," He flipped the wad of money in his hands to punctuate his point, further. "I have it all, but I can never get away from that ghetto rat. I'll_ always_ be that ghetto rat. This won't help." He waved the money again. "Only one thing this is good for, gonna make it rain, one way or another. Have my own little rain dance, buddy." And with that, he threw the entire wad of bills up in the air and over the balcony. For a moment, it almost seemed to freeze in the air, then it started falling, separating as it did, the cold wind helping. Like fall leaves, it fluttered to the ground, softly, silently. "Someone's going to have a hell of a great morning," Jon remarked. He looked at Roman. "Got anything to say, big guy?"

"What do you want me to say?" Roman asked.

"Well, I just laid bare part of my soul, you motherfucker," Jon said, his eyes narrowing, his voice getting an even more menacing tone than it had all night. "And all you can do is _stand_ there? Some fucking best friend_ you_ are."

"Jon, I'm freezing," Roman said, unable to think of a lie that might appease him, and decided to just be honest. "It's cold as hell out here and I'm standing here in nothing but a pair of boxers, for Christ's sake. I understand, you've had a rough life, and I'm more than happy to talk about it with you, but right now, I just can't _think_."

Jon sighed. "I'm a shitty friend, aren't I?" he said, shaking his head. "I don't know why you put up with me, Roman. Oh wait, you don't put up with_ me,_ you put up with _Dean_. _Dean_ is your best friend, you couldn't give a fuck about _me_." Before Roman could answer, Jon grabbed him by the arm and spun him around so he was facing the sliding door, which was still open. "Let's get you inside, you fucking pussy," he muttered. He slipped behind him in a flash, raised his booted foot, and kicked him in the small of his back and not gently, either. Unprepared, Roman few forward, sprawling in the doorway. Jon laughed as Roman scrambled to his feet. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall, right, Roman?" He walked into the room, behind Roman, gun still trained on him.

_End of Pt. II_

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><p><strong>Author's notes: Yeah, I warned you... gritty. DeanJon isn't being very nice right now. **

**AnonForNow**** I'm glad you're interested and I hope when you read this, you're still interested. Thank you for your review! **

**Just A Reader**** Yes, writers block sucks. I don't know what I would have done if I didn't get this challenge. While this isn't the story I was hoping to write, I do have to admit, it wasn't as painful to swim in the dark side of the pool as I thought it might be. **

**Iremmy**** As you can see, there is more. And more still to come. And, it will get even darker and scarier. I'm glad you liked it though. **

**To everyone else who reviewed? I know I thanked you all personally, but I still want to thank you here, in public. Your reviews mean a whole lot to me. **


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: Jon Moxley/Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns are neither my creations or my property. They belong to the WWE and/or the actors/sports entertainers/professional wrestlers who play them. Jessica and Leah (who are only mentioned) are characters born of my imagination only and any resemblance between them and any person living or dead is merely coincidental. **

_Trigger Warning__: Well, if you've gotten this far, you have a pretty good idea of how dark this story is. If you continue reading it now, you know what you're dealing with. This part gets even a little darker than the previous parts. If you are particularly sensitive, you might want to reconsider before continuing. _

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><p><strong>Rain Dance<strong>

**Part III**

**3:49 am.**

Roman turned around slowly, carefully, not wanting to set Jon off. It seemed like the longer Jon played his game, the meaner he got about it, and that worried Roman a lot more than he wanted to admit. He could take pain, he was trained to be able to withstand pain, but this was a whole new ball game. He was fighting for his life, but it wasn't a fair fight and no one told him the rules because there were no hard and fast rules, Jon was making it up on the spot. _ But at least I'm out of the cold, _he thought,_ and maybe as I warm up, my brain can start working better._ "If you say so," he finally said, knowing Jon was expecting an answer.

"If you say so," Jon mimicked Roman with a sarcastic twist. "You're not being a whole lot of fun, Roman," he said, in his normal voice now. "Fuck it, this isn't nearly as fun as I thought it would be." He paused and sighed. "Maybe it's just time to get this over with."

"No!" Roman said, a little too quickly. When Jon glared at him, he hastily continued. "I mean, we've got all night, right? We might as well talk more."

"I get what you're doing," Jon laughed. "Oh, don't worry, Roman, I'm not upset. You're trying to buy time, save your life, I even admire that. It won't work, but I do admire it." He started to pace in the room, pace around Roman. "Fuck, why do I have to be crazy?"

"You don't," Roman said, watching him carefully. The gun wasn't to his forehead anymore, perhaps this was the chance he needed. He had to warm up though, right now it felt like his blood was the consistency of refrigerated corn syrup. "If you really do feel your head is messed up, we can get you help. If you're upset about having to _act _crazy for the WWE, that's a choice you make. You may have to do it in the ring, but you don't have to be that outside of the ring.

"No, it's not," Jon disagreed. "Nobody cares about me unless I'm crazy. Dean wasn't crazy enough for them, I had to bring Moxley back. Yeah, yeah, it's all PG crazy, but crazy is crazy. That's the _only_ thing people like about me. 'Oh, you were so great as Mox! Oh, I loved Moxley! Dean is okay, but Moxley, wow, that guy was awesome!'" He mimicked the majority of his fans almost perfectly before sighing. "I feel like no one knows _me_, Roman. Like no one sees _me_. They just see the crazy. The crazy was supposed to be a _gimmick,_ something that made me stand out. Remember our last appearance as Shield, when we were outside the door, getting ready to go in? That dumb ass fan who kept yelling, 'MOXLEY! JON MOXLEY!' I just felt like...wow, this person doesn't like Dean. This person doesn't care about the fact that I'm Dean Ambrose and I've worked hard to be a great Dean Ambrose, all that matters to him is that I was once Jon Moxley, so he's going to show off to his friends like a fucking twink hipster. 'Oh, look it me, Dean Ambrose is _way_ too commercial and sane for _me_. I liked him only as Jon Moxley. I won't even acknowledge that Dean Ambrose exists, I'm only going to call him Moxley, because I'm a hipster asshole and I love the crazy,' I mean, don't get me wrong, I do have crazy inside me. But that crazy was for self defense. Life sucked growing up, crazy kept it from sucking worse. The crazy was never meant to be me. It was never supposed to be the only part of me people liked, it was supposed to be the part that made them leave me_ alone!_"

Jon paused and looked at Roman. "It was like I had two choices, be crazy or give up. My mother and her druggie friends? They gave up. They crawled up a pipe or into a needle and just gave up. I refused. People would..._expect _things of me. My mom and one of her sick, druggie friends once cut me up with the lid of a can, just so they could take me to the hospital and get pain medication. Once they got it, they ignored me. They couldn't even give me some goddamned kid's Tylenol or something, just let me lay in bed, while they got high off the medicine that was supposed to make _my_ pain manageable. And that wasn't the_ half_ of what went on in my life. There was a guy who used to force me to sell drugs for him. Yeah, that's right, he'd give me meth and order me to sell it. And if I didn't bring him the money, I knew he'd kill me. So I'd sell his stupid drugs. I didn't _dare_ bring it home, or my mother and her friends would have taken it from me and let this guy kill me. On top of that, my mom would hook to make money. By the time I left for good, her entire life was dicks for the fix. But, sometimes she'd get a stupid client. A guy who had shit on him and was dumb enough to give her something _before_ he got what he needed. And if he was too generous with my mom, and gave her something to slow her down, rather than speed her up, sometimes she'd pass out. Not a good thing, Roman. It's_ never_ a good idea when a whore passes out. Especially when a guy is really, _really_ horny." He paused in his pacing and studied Roman. "You warming up, bro?"

Roman nodded, his gaze going from Jon's face to the gun, back to the face, back to the gun. He was trying to be as calm as possible, but it was getting harder and harder. The gun, the horrible story, horrible but true story, coming from Jon's lips.

"Good," Jon nodded and resumed pacing, resumed his monolog. "Now, sometimes my mom's clients didn't care. Hell, some of them likely had a few necrophilia fantasies, so they could appreciate that mom was pretty much catatonic. 'crawl on me, living dead girl' shit. But sometimes, they didn't want that, they wanted someone who would interact with them, sometimes even someone who would put up a fight. And when you're high, horny, and desperate, an asshole starts to look about as good as a vagina. Hell, for some of them, it probably looked even _better_. Especially better than my mom's vayjay, which was probably a little worse for wear, if you get my drift. So, they'd start looking at _me_, Roman. Looking, at, _me._ In that way, that _same_ way they looked at my mother, like I was a piece of meat or some exotic toy that was theirs to play with until they broke it, then they could just throw it away and find another one. And I could _smell_ that desperation on them. It smelled like that faint stench of garbage that lingers after you've taken out the trash, it smelled like that shit and Pine-sol scent you smell in the bathrooms of bus stations. It smelled like rotting, wet grass and old spunk. It didn't matter that I was a kid, they were just as addicted as my mom was, but it was sex they wanted instead of drugs. And at that moment, my ass was like a shining beacon of happiness to them. They wanted my ass, Roman. They didn't care that I was eight, nine, or twelve, they wanted _my_ ass. So, you know what I learned to do?"

Roman shook his head in the negative.

Jon was continuing before Roman was done shaking his head. "I learned to be crazy. There's something _magical_ about crazy, Roman. Most people don't understand it, so they fear it, at least when it's turned into their direction. They also think it's contagious, so they don't want to hang around with it very long. So, I learned that if I could act crazy enough, they'd leave me alone." He paused and laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound, it carried up and down in range, from a high cackle to a low chuckle and it just sounded lost and eerie. "I remember this one guy, came into my room, all tough. I think I was twelve at the time, maybe thirteen. But this asshole comes barging into my room, screaming about how he paid my mother good money, and how she spent it on drugs and now she's passed out in bed."

Jon paused and shook his head in disbelief. "Do you believe that idiot? He gave my mother money and let her go buy drugs with it _before_ he fucked her. Is that stupid or what?" He shook his head several more times before continuing. "So, he's saying that he's getting some, one way or another, and if _she_ won't put out for him, _I_ will. Wanna know what I did?"

"Only if you want to tell me," Roman said, his voice getting slightly stronger as he was warming up. He didn't like hearing this, it hurt to think of the pain his brother-by-choice had suffered as a child, and part of him wanted to tell Jon to just shut up, that there was nothing he, Roman could do to help with that pain, so why did they both have to relive it? What good would it do, if Jon got his way and both of them died that night? But he didn't dare. As long as Jon was talking, as long as Jon was telling stories, Roman was alive.

"I sat up," Jon continued. "I was in bed at the time. So, I sat straight up in bed and glared at him. Had my lip curled, nostrils flared, the whole bit. And I said, 'Get your ass over here, I've been looking for a good screwing all week. So yeah, you'll get your chance at me, but when you're done? I get _my_ chance with _you_. And if I don't find _your_ performance to _my_ liking? I'll bite off your dick and cram it up your own ass, do I make myself clear?'" He paused and laughed. "I guess I was crystal, because I started getting out of the bed and the douche nozzle goes running out the door. I never saw him again."

Even though it was a horrible story, there was a part of Roman that admired Dean. Admired him for standing up for himself, for fighting back to save himself. There were too many people who would have let themselves be beaten down to where they couldn't fight back. Or they would have learned to take it out on something weaker that themselves, but Dean hadn't done that, Dean had fought back against the one responsible. He wanted to tell Dean/Jon this, tell him how brave and strong he thought he was, but he didn't know if that would be smart or not. _How long has he carried this crap inside him?_ Roman thought. _I've seen his old promos, I've listened to his offhand remarks when we've been talking. I always thought he was really open about his bad past, but I was wrong. He kept a lot of it bottled up. _Dean's childhood had been like a rotten onion. Layers and layers of hurt and horror, and the further in you went, the worst it got, until you just couldn't stand it anymore and you just wanted to run away, scream, anything to make it stop.

"That's how it started," Jon said. "Crazy was a weapon. As long as I was crazy, people left me alone. However they reacted, I reacted twice as bad. You tell me my Halloween costume sucks? I'm going to cram that candy apple down your throat. And at first it was great, I could turn it on and off when I needed to. Then, I get into wrestling... and it's the best thing I've ever had in my life. I'm selling popcorn and cleaning up locker rooms for the company, but I don't care. I get my reward, I get to _watch_ and I get to_ learn_."

Roman nodded, still not taking his gaze off of Jon. Even though he was pacing, he still was close to Roman, too close for heroics. He kept making eye contact, and waving that gun around, as if it were an instrument meant to accentuate whatever point he wanted to make.

"It wasn't like it was for you," Jon said. "I don't come from a family of wrestlers, there aren't people in my family to teach me, I had to do it this way. But it's worth it. Then, I'm finally old enough so I can do more than learn, I can _be_ in it. And I have to come up with who I'm gonna be in the ring. So, we talk about it and I tell 'em, 'I can do crazy,' and we go with that. And I do it really,_ really_, good. Too good, some say, but mostly, it's just love for the crazy man. Apparently, crazy is only scary when it's directed right at you. Watching someone get crazy on someone else is fucking drugs to some people. And I have to admit, I didn't mind that at first. Love is love, right? And when I started getting into the hard core stuff, well," He paused, shaking his head. "I found out there are chicks that totally dig a guy who bleeds for entertainment. Seriously, it gets them all crazy or something. Like makes their vagina's itch and only a hard core wrestler's dick can scratch it. And hey, that was a lot of fun for awhile too," He frowned now, still waving the gun. "Well, it was fun except for... well, you know, the dog and all such." He stopped pacing and looked at Roman. "Are you bored, _brother?_" he asked, the final word coming out as more of a sneer.

"No," Roman said quickly. He wasn't lying either. The last thing he was right now was bored. His body was finally warmed up enough that he felt that he might be able to take a risk, if opportunity presented itself. "Go on."

"Why don't you sit on the bed," Jon suggested. Roman didn't need to be told twice, he sat on the bed. "We'll get to you in a minute, big guy, I haven't forgotten about you."

"I didn't think you had," Roman said. He was grateful to be sitting. Even if it meant he had to look up at Dean, he was resting and he felt he might need to rest, reserve his strength.

"So, I'm crazy," Jon continued. "And I keep being crazy, until I get to the fabulous WWE family. Then I'm told, 'you can't do that anymore,' and sure, at first I'm a little scared, but I'm also thrilled, because I'm going to finally be _me_. No crazy guy, but me. Will I be off the wall? Yeah, but that's okay. I _am_ off the wall. I'll have an ego the size of Madison Square Garden, especially when it comes to wrestling, because I just _am _that good, but I don't have to be insane crazy anymore. And I go along and soon start working with you and Seth. Awesome. Now I'm mean, they say I'm crazy, they call me the lunatic, but it's a _controlled_ crazy. It's more aggressive than crazy. And people still seem to like me. I'm finally starting to feel like I fit, like I have a place in this world, not as crazy guy, but as Dean Ambrose. Unpredictable, off the wall, but fairly sane. I start to think I can make a _life_ out of this. Hell, I even started thinking of trying to find Cin-" He stopped abruptly. "Trying to find something, you get the point, right?"

Roman nodded. "Now they took that away from you," he ventured. "Dean Ambrose was the closest you had to normal, but now they're telling you to make him as crazy as Jon Moxley. Am I close?"

Jon stopped his pacing and stared at him, then walked over and put the gun to his forehead again, pressing it into the skin until Roman could feel an impression of the barrel being molded into his skin. _What did I say wrong? _he thought._ What? _"Jon," he whispered.

"Yeah," Jon said, as if he hadn't heard Roman say his name. "You're close. Maybe I should let you win the prize, Roman. Maybe I should let you go now, because this can't be fun, sitting around in your boxers, probably ready to piss yourself, listening to me ramble and knowing how it's all going to end. So, should I end it? Just blow your head off right now? Because I'll do it, brother. If you're bored and you're ready, I'll do it. Anything for my Shield _Brother_."

"No!" Roman objected. He stared at Jon, stared into his eyes, hoping he might see Dean flashing behind them. If he could see Dean, he might be able to reason with him. But all he saw was Dark Jon Moxley. "I don't want to die."

"This again?" Jon rolled his eyes and stepped back. "I thought you finally understood, this game isn't about_ if,_ it's about _when_."

He started pacing around the room again, but still never too far from Roman, still making sure to keep almost constant eye contact with him, still waving that gun. "Why do you want to live anyway? I mean, I know life is cool with you, beautiful fiance, great kid, every woman wants you, but still, what's it all mean? Beautiful fiance that you barely see. Beautiful kid you Skype with. One hotel room after another. 'Hi honey, what are you doing?' 'Nothing, Baby girl, I'm just sittin' with my next door neighbor,' knowing the _only_ moment you'll feel truly alive is when you're hitting those stairs, heading for that ring. Most of your life is just waiting for that hour or so. It's_ filler _waiting for those few minutes. You know what? I wish your lady was here."

The change of subject came so quickly that Roman _almost_ didn't catch it, "Why do you want Jessica to be here?" he asked.

"She's beautiful," Jon said with a shrug. "I'd love it if she gave me a blow job. I think it would be a trip, Roman. I blow your brains out, have her blow me, and at the moment I'm about to get off? BANG!"

It took everything Roman had not to take his chances and attack Jon. Sure, he might die, but he wouldn't have to listen to this bullshit. And if anything convinced him that this really wasn't Dean it was that. Dean had always made it clear that while he thought Jessica was a beautiful woman, he never entertained the idea of making a play for her. If anything, their relationship leaned more towards the much liked sister in law of the favorite brother. Someone you can appreciate, someone you can admire, but never want to own for yourself. Never once had Dean even _joked_ about doing anything with Jessica. Even Seth had joked about it a time or two, but never Dean. It was like Jessica was someone untouchable to him. And now, here he was, casually talking about _raping_ her. Yeah, he wanted to take his chances badly, man up and do his best to take Dark Jon out, but one thing stopped him, Leah. Had it been only himself in this world, he would have done it. Had it been just he and Jessica, he might have done it, but for Leah's sake he would not. She was just an innocent kid who deserved a Daddy who would do everything in his power to make sure he stayed around to watch her grow up. If he was to die this night, it would not be because he took unnecessary risks. It would not be because he didn't do every single thing in his power to stay alive.

"You'd do that?" Roman asked, unable to keep the disgust tinged with fear from his voice. "You'd kill both of us? Leave Leah with no one?"

"No, Jessica would still be alive," Jon said, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were _listening!" _ He came over and smacked the gun in the side of Roman's head again, not quite as hard as the first time, but still hard enough to hurt. "I'd blow _my_ brains out, not hers. I wouldn't leave your kid an orphan, Roman, I'm not _that_ cruel."

"Oh, but for her to know that her daddy's best friend killed her daddy and himself, while Mommy watched, _that's_ cool?" Roman said, trying not to wince.

"She'll get over it," Jon shrugged and went back to his pacing. "Jessica will sue the WWE because they put us together in the Shield. The WWE will settle quietly, Jess and Leah will have enough money to wipe their ass with hundred dollar bills every time they eat tacos, and Jess can get the best therapy in the world for both of them. Of course, the sad part is that Jess being here is just a fantasy. I'm never going to get a blow job." He laughed, a cackling laugh that sent shivers down Roman's spine.

"No," Roman said, staring at Jon, unable to stop himself from speaking, "The _sad _part is that you run around whining how your mother was a druggy and your father was always in jail. You whine that your life sucked because you didn't have a family. And I won't argue that it's true, but now, after all the pain you suffered not having a stable family, you can decide to take away another child's chance at a stable family, just because you decided you wanted to bring a date for your trip to Valhalla? That's _selfish_, Jon. That's _really_ selfish. You claim you're not Dean, so you don't love my daughter, but you don't have to love her to know what a selfish thing it is you're doing."

Jon had started pacing as Roman talked, faster now, making small jerking motions with his head. He brought the hand not holding the gun up to the opposite shoulder and started drumming his fingers on it. He started licking his lips, almost compulsively and his steps took on a jerky quality. Even when Roman stopped speaking, he paced for another few seconds, before walking back over to him, nostrils flared. "Not _fair_, Roman, not fair at _all._"

Roman stared back, his own nostrils flaring, but he kept his voice low. "You're talking about _killing_ me, and you want to argue about what's _fair? _ You're _unbelievable_, Jon."

"Enough!" Jon's free hand curled in a fist and he started to raise it, as if he would strike Roman with it, then stopped. He forced his fingers straight and flexed them. "Time to play a game," he said through gritted teeth.

Roman stared at him. _Game? I do __**not**__ like the sound of this. _ "What?"

"It's called, 'What will you do to save your life,'" Jon's grin wasn't just crazy now, it was evil. "And, I'm serious here, you might actually get the chance to save your life. You won't save mine, I'm too far gone, but something tells me that right now, you don't give a fuck if I live or die. True?"

"Not true," Roman said, and he knew he wasn't lying. While Jon wasn't the favorite person on his list right now, he was still Dean. He could be claiming split personality all he wanted, and maybe there was something to that, but Dean was there too. And he couldn't stop loving Dean, he couldn't stop thinking of Dean as his brother. "And if you can hear me, inside of there, Dean, you'll _always_ be my brother."

"Shut up!" Jon roared. He grabbed Roman by the hair and yanked on it, hard. Having his hair yanked was nothing new to Roman, it was a common game in the ring and with his hair being so long, it was a tempting target. But there was a right way and a wrong way to grab someone by the hair, and Jon was definitely going for the wrong way. Roman lurched forward to cut back the pulling, and Jon laughed. "On your knees, _brother_," he sang out, stepping back as Roman leaned forward, so Roman was forced off the bed and on to his knees on the carpet. "You're lucky," Jon sneered as he watched Roman kneel. "We stay at the _nice_ hotels now, the ones with the plush carpet and the thick padding. Not those awful places we used to stay where the carpet was glued directly on to the sub flooring. This will be _much_ nicer for your knees. And I'm going to keep you on your knees a lot, Roman, because that's the kind of game this is." His fingers were still wrapped in Roman's hair, pulling tightly on it. While he held his hair, he hit Roman again with the gun, but this time in the face.

Roman grimaced as the gun hit his face, crashing into his nose. For a moment he felt nothing but this tingling sensation like he was going to sneeze, then the pain came, nothing he couldn't handle, nothing he hadn't experienced a million times before, but this was so much worse because it was Dean, or at least Dean's body that had inflicted it, not as a part of the act, but because this evil in Jon wanted to hurt him, wanted to see him in pain. Blood trickled down from his nose to his lips, but he forced himself to look at Jon, to _make_ Jon see what he was doing. If Dean was still in there, maybe _Dean_ would see.

"That blood on your lips almost looks like lipstick," Jon said. "Red is your shade." He shifted the gun so it was sticking in Roman's forehead again. "Okay, you want to live? Beg me."

"Wha?" Roman asked, spraying blood from his mouth. Looking at Jon he had to tilt his head back, causing his bloody nose to start draining into his mouth instead.

"_Beg_ me," Jon said, grinning. "You're the one who claimed you'd do _anything_ to stay alive for your daughter's sake, I want to test that. I've never met someone who's _that _dedicated to this miserable thing we call life. Everyone has their limits and I want to find yours. If I don't find them by the time you get your morning phone message from your daughter and your fiance, I _might_ let you live. Don't count on it though, I think I know your limits."

"Jon, don't kill me," Roman began, his voice calm and soft, despite the blood that trickled out of the corners of his mouth. "I don't want to die."

Jon frowned. "Try again, I don't sense much sincerity from that."

The moment that Jon had announced this was a game, Roman's mind invented a game of its own. The game was called "Can you?" and it was simple; every request Jon made of him, his mind would ask him, _Can you? _ And every time, he would do his best to answer himself, _Yes__,__ I can._ Because he might have a chance, slim, but a _chance_. And if there was any chance at all, he was going to see his daughter again and she would never know how close she came to losing her Daddy this night.

_Can you?_

_Yes, I can._

He looked up at Jon, and did his best to fix a look of sincerity on his face. "Please," he said, his voice soft, but allowing a waiver to come to it. "Please don't kill me, Jon, please, I'm begging you."

"Why_ shouldn't_ I kill you?" was Jon's reply and while he spoke, he brought the gun down to Roman's mouth and began running the barrel over his lips, the blood from his bleeding nose dripping on to the muzzle.

_Can you?_

_Yes. I can._

"For my daughter's sake," he whispered. "She doesn't deserve this."

"I'm tired of that excuse," Jon yawned. "I mean, I _believe_ it and all," He paused and ran the gun around Roman's mouth again, pushing harder this time, parting his lips slightly, so Roman felt the tang from the taste of the gun joining the coppery taste of the blood in his mouth. "But I don't want to let you live, just because of your daughter. Besides her, why do_ you _want to live?"

_Can you?_

_Yes, I can._

"Because I still love being alive," Roman said simply. As he started speaking, Dean removed the gun from his lips, which he was grateful for. "I know this life is a grind, I know it's 300+ days of here, there, everywhere, and I know that even on our few days off, we're often still supposed to go or be going to, here there and everywhere, but I still love it. I love waking up in the morning. I love Skyping with my daughter, Jessica, my parents, I love that I live in a day in age when I can do those things, so even though we can't be together as much as we like, we can still be close. I love wrestling. Yeah, it takes its toll on the body, we both know that, but I still love it. Maybe it's because I haven't been doing it professionally as long as you have, I started out with football, but I'm still _thrilled_ by it. I still love that every day, even if it's another show in the same town, it's different." He paused to swallow back some blood. He knew you weren't supposed to swallow blood, but he didn't dare spit it out while Jon had a gun to his forehead, just in case he violated some unspoken rule Jon had decided upon.

"Is that it?" Jon asked.

"Do you want more?" Roman asked.

"Sure," Jon shrugged. "Why not?"

_Can you?_

_Yes, I can._

"I love my family. Not just Leah and Jessica, although they're a huge part of it, but my parents, my siblings and their families. My aunts, uncles, and cousins, all my enormous, extended family," Roman said, his voice growing calmer as he spoke, confident in what he was saying, even if the situation was terrifying. "I'm lucky, Jon. I have a family that I love and a career that I love."

"Wrestling will kill you one day," Jon commented. "I mean, I know it's not a given, but we wrestlers don't have a reputation for living long, healthy lives."

"That's why I take care of myself," Roman said. "And I know the risks, I know every time I hop in a ring, I might leave by stretcher, I know I might leave the ring unable to walk on my own power again, but I still love it. You said once you knew someone who told you that even though professional wrestling is considered low brow, she still considered it an art form? She's right. It _is_an art form and you either get it or you don't, and if you get it, no one has to explain it to you, and if you don't, no one can. I _love_ that I'm in a career like that. Even when I want to choke the writers or the Powers That Be, I still love it.

"Not bad," Jon said, but he didn't look pleased. He looked disappointed as if he would have rather Roman had faltered on his reasons. "Okay, you pass on that one." He brought the gun up to his own forehead and tapped the barrel against it a couple of times. "Hm... the problem is that this game could turn into one very high stakes game of truth or dare, and while that might be amusing, I really don't have all night," he said. "So," he twisted his hand tighter in Roman's hair as he spoke. "I'm going to cut to the chase, Roman. I want you to blow me."

_Can you?_

"_What?_"

"Blow me," Jon repeated and grinned. "I said earlier I wanted to have a blow job before I died, and since I don't see any women up here, I'm going to have to get one from you. Here we go, Roman, will you give me a blow job?"

_Can you?_

_I don't want to._

_That isn't the question; the question is, can you?_

_But-_

_**Can you?**_

"Yes," Roman found himself saying out loud. "If it means I save my life, if it means my daughter grows up knowing her father, I'll do it."

"I don't know if I'll let you live if you_ do_ blow me," Jon said. "I'm making no promises. So, with that in mind, knowing that this could all be in vain, I'll ask you again, will you give me a blow job?"

_Can you?_

_Yes, I can. _

"Yes," Roman said, through gritted teeth. "I'd do it, even if all it gives me is a chance. Because a chance is better than nothing."

"Oh wow," Jon laughed, his fingers buried in Roman's hair, pulling it even harder, the other hand still holding the gun to his forehead. "You're _awesome_, Roman. You'll let me rape your pretty mouth, just so your daughter will have a father? That's amazing. Maybe I _should_ let you live. Maybe it is a fair exchange, a blow job for the chance to some day walk your daughter down the isle when she gets married. Yeah, maybe I'll do it. But first..." He leaned so his face was only inches away from Roman's, "I want you to _beg._"

"What?"

"Beg," Dean smirked, straightening up. "_Beg_ me to suck my dick, Mr. Reigns. And you'd better convince you, because I'm only giving you **one **fucking chance. One chance, big guy. And if you don't convince me with your words, that you are just_ dying_ to suck my dick? You die. Start begging."

_Can you?_

_ohgodnodon'tmakemedothisjon._

_Can you?_

_This isn't something you can go back from! God, no Jon. Blowing you would be bad enough, being raped is bad enough, but you're going to make me beg you to do it?_

_Your daughter, your fiance, you family, your life. This is what's at stake here, Roman, so again, ask yourself, **CAN YOU?**_

"C'mon, Roman," Jon tapped the gun against his forehead impatiently. "Start begging or I'm going to pull this trigger."

_**CAN YOU?**_

Roman gulped, swallowing down a lump of blood and saliva, that seemed to turn into a solid mass that was squeezed down his throat. It was like the air had turned solid too, and it took all his effort to suck in a breath. Jon's fingers were still twined in his hair, yanking painfully on it, the gun to his forehead and he didn't want to, oh no, he didn't want to, but that didn't matter, the game wasn't do you_ want _to, the game was_ can_ you, and for the sake of his family, the answer was both wonderful and so god awful horrifying.

_Yes, I CAN!_

"Jon," he whispered, doing everything in his power to make his voice sound humble and eager. They said professional wrestlers were more actors than athletes, and this would be the time he proved it. "Please let me-"

"-Oh god, you were going to do it!" Jon interrupted, roaring with laughter. "You really were going to beg to suck my dick, you degenerate. You'd beg me to rape your mouth, not even for a _guarantee_ you'll see the sunrise, but just for a slim hope you _might!_ Wow, I don't know what to think of you now, Roman. Again, I don't know if you're awesome, or just a whore. Oh wait." He moved the gun so it was in Roman's temple again, "I've decided; you've lost. Say goodbye Roman."

"No!" Roman gasped and made one last effort to twist away, but Dark Jon had his hair so tightly wrapped around his hand, and the gun was right up to his temple, and the look on his face told him this was over. In a last futile attempt to make some sort of sense out of this, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to send a message by telepathy to his family, friends, and mostly his daughter. _Goodbye, I love you!_ And then Jon was pulling the trigger and Roman would have sworn that he could hear the sound of it being pulled back, and then-

Click.

He waited for the noise to get louder, for the pain, but there was nothing. And then he felt Jon's fingers leave his hair. and the barrel of the gun leave his temple. He opened his eyes slowly.

Jon was staring, not at him, but at the gun. "Do you believe this?" He shook his head. "What's this world coming to, when you buy a gun on the streets and they don't even _load_ it for you."

"_What?_" Roman was in shock, momentarily unable to process what was going on, what Jon was saying.

"I guess you won," Jon said, shrugging as if this was no big deal. "Unless you want to wait while I go score some ammo. Do you? Nah, I didn't think so." He leaned over and pulled Roman up to his feet. When Roman was standing; shaking, but standing, he put his hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "The odd thing is, I think the gun was loaded when I got it. I think that somewhere while I was on my way over here, Dean took over for just a minute... just enough time to get rid of it. Because, in his own weird way, he loves you, Roman. And between you and me? I don't think he wanted you to suck our dick either. 'Cause once you cross that line, you, there's no going back. He'd always be the guy that made you beg him to rape you. Not cool. It's hard to keep a brother thing going with a guy who rapes your mouth."

Roman was trying to steady himself, but his brain was having a hell of a time trying to figure out what had happened, and what was supposed to happen now. He stared at Jon, unable to talk.

"It'll be okay, Roman, you'll be fine." Jon leaned over and gently kissed him on the cheek. "Get some sleep, It'll be morning soon." He lowered his hand and put the gun back into the pocket on the inside of the jacket. "I'll see you later... maybe. That depends on if I can score some bullets. But you're safe, Roman. I've put you through enough." And with that, he turned and headed for the door.

When he was almost to the door, Roman's brain finally clicked and started working. Sure, professional wrestling wasn't real fighting, but it wasn't exactly fake either. And he hadn't been working out for six plus hours in the gym every day because he was weak and that working out sure didn't make him weaker, it made him stronger. And he sure as _hell_ wasn't going to let Dean or Jon or whatever he was calling himself get out the door. As fast as he could, faster than he thought was possible, he ran up behind him and punched the back of Jon's head so hard that he crashed forward, falling into the door, with a resounding thud, then slumped to the floor. No dramatics, no spinning around, no slow fall like in the ring, this was nothing but the sound of flesh and bone hitting flesh and bone, then almost as quickly, flesh hitting the metal door, and then the body falling to the floor, almost instantly. Roman had cold cocked him with one punch.

Calmly, almost too calmly, considering the circumstances, Roman walked over to his luggage and took out a pair of boots. Quickly, he pulled out the laces, then went over, knelt on the floor and used the laces to tie Dean's hands together behind him, and then his feet. These were those nylon laces, stronger than your average cotton ones. They might not keep Jon restrained forever, but he didn't need them to last forever.

He picked Dean up and threw him on the bed. Jon's eyes fluttered open for a moment, but he said nothing and they closed again. And even though this night was easily the worst one in his life, he was still glad Jon/Dean was alive and he didn't know if he was glad he was glad, or upset he was glad. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and started dialing 911 As his fingers fumbled to punch the number in, his glance fell onto the alarm clock by the nightstand.

**4:45 am.**

_End of Part III_

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><p><strong>Author's Notes: You have gotten through the worst of it. Seriously, the conclusion will not be nearly as violent as this is. <strong>

**Just A Reader I understand exactly what you mean, this is like a train wreck. Writing it was a train wreck, because there were times when I was saying, "No, he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't." But that crazy, scary, Dark Moxley/Dean kept saying, "Oh, yes I would!" **

**Thank you to everyone else who left reviews. I really do appreciate it. And I hope I continue to get reviews on this creepy little tale. Reviews are like the drugs that keep me writing. I know that sounds weird, but there you have it. To be honest, I'm so discouraged lately with wrestling itself, I'm getting so tired of all the hate I'm seeing for Roman Reigns everywhere but here, that I'm about ready to give up on wrestling all together. The man is out on medical leave, why can't they cut him some slack? **

**I've got ideas I want to write. I want to do a sequel to Chasing the Moonlight. But I keep wondering if I should even bother. Yeah, Dean is hotter than hell right now (thank god) but I like writing about the dynamics between Shield, whether they're together or not. I don't want to write about "Dean, the champion and hottest property of the WWE, Seth the evil, popular brother, and Roman, the jobber for Bo Dallas." **

**Sorry if I sound frustrated, it's not you, readers. It's the WWE and the IWC. So, Roman's interview on Raw wasn't the best piece of television ever recorded. The man is healing, cut him some slack. **


	4. Chapter 4

**DISLCAIMER: Jon Moxley/ Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns are not my creations or my property. They belong to the WWE and/or the sports entertainers/professional wrestlers/actors that play them. This was written for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by said people/companies above. **

_Trigger Warning: If you've gotten this far, the worst is over. _

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><p><strong>Rain Dance<strong>

**Pt IV (The conclusion)**

_Two weeks later_

**10:15 am.**

Roman held out his drivers license to the woman behind the counter. "I'm here to see Dean Ambrose."

The woman looked at him and shook her head, almost sadly. "You're nothing, if not persistent," she remarked, taking his license and handing him a plastic tray. He said nothing to the woman, merely gave her a half smile and shrugged, but he emptied his pockets into the tray. There wasn't much to remove, he had been here enough times that he had learned not to bring much in with him. His wallet was safely locked in the rental car. along with a pair of nail clippers and a pen knife he sometimes carried on him, those were things that could get him banned from ever coming in here again, so he made sure not to have them. The only thing he came in here with was his drivers license, the keys to the rental car, and a package of chewing gum. All of these he put in the tray. When he was done, he handed the tray to the woman, who put it on a shelf behind her. "You can pick it up on the way out," she commented, as she slipped the license into a slot in the front of the tray to allow for easier identification.

"Thank you," he said.

He was able to walk through the metal detector without having to take his shoes off. He learned that the first time he was here, wear sneakers, preferably with plastic eyelets and don't wear a jacket with a metal zipper. Fortunately, it was warm enough today that no jacket was necessary. He was also fortunate today that the metal detector wasn't too sensitive, because the zipper on his jeans didn't set it off. It had the first time he'd come here and it was a little freaky at first, having someone come over and run a portable detector over his privates. The guy manning the metal detector smiled at him, "Good to see you again, Mr. Reigns," he said.

"Thanks." That was one thing you had to give this place, the security officers were polite. He had heard stories before about staff at places like this, heard that they could be obnoxious, but security here was unfailingly polite and it didn't seem like an act, either.

The guard hit a button when he got through the metal detection area and the double doors made a loud buzzing sound. Roman opened the doors and went through.

By the time he got to the visitors room, Dean was already there, sitting on one of the vinyl couches. He didn't see Roman walk in, which gave Roman a few moments to look at him, to judge how he was doing. He looked pretty good, compared to all the other times he'd been here. Those other times, he and Roman barely talked and the visits hadn't lasted very long, but today, he looked better, more like Dean. Less like a zombie. Roman walked over. "Hey."

Dean looked up at him. "I-I'm.." He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm surprised you're here. Glad, I mean, but surprised. I was surprised enough when they told me you called and made an appointment, but I half expected you wouldn't come anyway. I wouldn't have blamed you if you were a no-show."

"This will be the sixth time I've been here," Roman reminded him. "I try to come every week if I can."

"Really?" Dean shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I think they had you on some pretty powerful meds when you first got here," Roman said, sitting down across from him. The room was bright and sunny and looked like a generic waiting are, like one would find in an airport or doctor's office. It was only the orderlies wearing scrubs and the fact that about half the people in here were wearing some form of pajamas that gave away the true nature of the place. The other times Roman had visited, Dean had been wearing plain gray pajamas that the place had issued him, because Dean usually just slept in boxers and a t-shirt, so there had been no pajamas in his luggage when Roman brought it here for him. Today though, he was wearing a pair of navy blue sweat pants and an old, very worn CZ wrestling T-shirt.

"That sounds about right," Dean said, scratching his head. "Those days... it's like a fog, you know? My doctor cut down the meds early this week and I've been slowly coming out of the fog."

"I'm glad to hear it," Roman said, and he _was_ glad to hear it. He wasn't sure if he had completely forgiven him for that night that seemed so far away when the sun was shining, but so recent when the night came and he woke up in a cold sweat, thinking he still had a gun pressed to his temple.

"I saw you, on RAW," Dean said, almost shyly. "They let me watch it, Monday. At least I watched the first half, so I watched you challenge Randy. I fell asleep for the second half, it's really hard to stay awake at night with these meds, so I didn't see your match. Sorry."

"It's okay," Roman said. "You can catch it on the WWE network soon enough." He debated if he should make a "For a mere 9.99" joke, but decided against it. Roman was back at work now, but after "the incident" (as it became to everyone who knew about it) Dean hadn't been the only one who had been affected. Roman had spent an entire week at home, a lot of it playing with, talking to, hugging, and just enjoying time with Leah. Jessica too, not just hugs though, he and Jessica had made love with a renewed avidity, as if they both needed to reassure each other that both of them were alive and well. And the nights when he woke up, sweating, thinking he had that gun to his forehead? She was there for him. She never made a big deal out of it, either, acting like she had just happened to wake up, that his bolting upright in the bed, sometimes even shouting, "No!" had nothing to do with it. She would curl up in his arms, letting him hold her, because that's what he needed, not to be protected, but for him to be the protector. Some nights they would make love again, getting lost in the sweetness and closeness of flesh meeting flesh, other times they would say nothing, just lying there in the glorious wonder of being together.

Roman and Dean sat in awkward silence for awhile, neither of them knowing what to say. _There is no Hal__l__mark greeting card for an occasion such as this,_ Roman thought, _and if there was, what would __it __say? I hope you're not feeling too bored / As you do your time in the mental ward__?_

When Roman had dialed 911, he hadn't asked for the police, he asked for an ambulance. He had ridden to the hospital with Dean, who had ended up in there for "observation" for 48 hours, all they legally could hold him. Roman told the doctors what happened, and they wanted to send Dean to this place. At first Dean had refused, but then, they struck a deal. If he agreed to sign himself over to this place for at least three months, Roman would not go to the police and press charges. Thank God Dean had seen the wisdom of that, and had signed, because Roman wasn't sure if he could have pressed charges or not. He didn't like what Jon/Dean had done, thought it was wrong and a sign of the sickness he was carrying around, but if he, Roman, had to go to court and testify? See him possibly thrown in jail? Roman knew he would have backed out. Dean was still his brother. Dean had the excuse of being crazy when he did what he did. If Roman got him thrown in jail, it would be all on his head, no excuses for him to fall back on.

It was Roman that finally broke the silence by saying, "everyone misses you."

"Do they know what happened?" Dean asked, looking as if he wasn't sure if he wanted the answer to that question to be yes, or no.

"They know some of it," Roman admitted. "They don't know about the gun or you holding me hostage. As far as they know, you had a sort-of break down, and you're getting help."

"The doctors are calling what I had a psychotic breakdown," Dean said. "Which is the technical term for, I went whacko crackers."

Roman couldn't help but chuckle at that. "What do they say about the whole, Dean vs. Jon thing?"

"The jury is out on that," Dean said, shrugging. "Because some doctors believe in Multiple Personality Disorder and most don't. The term Dissociative identity disorder has been tossed around a lot."

"Do _you_ believe?" Roman was curious.

"I don't know," Dean said, tapping his fingers on his legs. "Sometimes I think yes, sometimes no. I don't remember that night very clearly. I remember there were parts where it was like I was watching myself do everything. Like I was standing outside of my body, watching it, like it was a TV show. Other times, I swear it _was_ me that did those things. And I'm ashamed of myself for doing them," he hung his head.

Roman nodded. "You were pretty convincing. At least to me. I was pretty sure I was going to die that night." Unconsciously, he reached up and rubbed his nose, which was still hurting slightly. The black eyes were gone, and the stitches in his lip had dissolved awhile ago, which was a good thing, but a broken nose itself didn't heal so fast. He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath. "Dean, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Dean said looking up again, fingers still drumming.

"Why _me?_" Roman stared at him, not only wanting to hear Dean's answer, but to see his reaction. "What did_ I _ever do to you, that would make you do what you did to me? You're my brother, I've _always_ tried to be there for you, and you paid me back by...well, let's be blunt here, terrorizing me for a few hours, convincing me that you were going to kill me. You pistol whipped me, kicked me, threatened to_ rape_ me. And I _still_ don't know what I did to deserve it."

"You didn't do _anything_ to deserve it," Dean said softly, "Except some might say you deserved it by being stupid enough to be my friend." His leg started to twitch and for a long time, he said nothing, just sat there, leg bouncing up and down, staring at Roman as if trying to collect his thoughts. "I don't know... well, I have some ideas, but I can't really give you a cut and dry reason. It doesn't seem to work like that."

"Give it your best shot," Roman said, still keeping his voice neutral. "I think you owe me."

Dean's leg stopped bouncing and he looked at Roman. "I think," he began. "That I knew something was really, _really,_ wrong with me. And I think that I didn't know how to stop it, or how to... deal with it. I'm not like other people. When I say, 'I'm crazy,' people nod. They think it's just the Dean Ambrose or the Jon Moxley crazy. But this wasn't the same."

"Okay," Roman said, slowly, "But that still doesn't answer the question,_ why me?_"

"Because," Dean said, trying to collect his thoughts, "because I think I knew you were the only one who would _listen._ If I had gone crazy like that on anyone else, I wouldn't be here, I'd be in jail. They would know I was crazy, but they wouldn't get me help, they'd press charges. You're the only person I know who would_ listen_. You're the only one who would see what I did for what it was, a cry for help."

"Bro, couldn't you have just said, 'I'm not very stable right now, and I think I might be a danger to myself or others, can you help?'" Roman asked.

"Would you have _listened?"_ Dean asked pointedly, "I mean, I know you can say right now you'd listen. But really, before I did what I did, would you have _listened?_ Or would you have said, 'Everyone feels like that sometimes, Dean. I know what you need, let's go party it up tonight, tear this town down to the ground!'?"

Roman hesitated. He wanted to say that of course he would have listened and suggested Dean get help, but when push came to shove, like most people, he would have tried to talk Dean down. He would have treated this like a mood Dean was in, a mood he needed to be talked out of, as if it were nothing worse than a bad day. "I wish I could say I would have listened, but you're right, I probably would have tried to talk you down off of it." He looked down at his feet for a moment. "And for that, I'm sorry, bro."

Dean shrugged. "You don't have to apologize, I have _way_ more to make up for to you than you ever will to me."

Roman shook his head. "You don't have to make up anything to me, Dean. You're still my brother."

"That's another reason why I probably did what I did to you instead of someone else," Dean said. "Because I knew you'd help me, and I knew you'd forgive me." He paused and reached out, putting his hand over Roman's, a comforting gesture, but it wasn't sure who was being comforted here and maybe it was both of them. "Because, as you tell me, we're family. And that's what family does."

Roman chuckled at this. _Shot down by my own logic, _he thought, but he smiled at Dean. "Yep, that's what family does."

"I may be jealous too, we haven't gone into that as much," Dean said.

"Of what?" Roman asked, although he had a pretty good idea. "It can't be my career vs. yours, buddy. You are the man. You're _still_ the man. Everywhere we go the fans are holding up signs about you, wishing you well, saying they miss you. 'We want Ambrose' chants have replaced 'CM Punk' chants."

Dean tried to look unmoved by this, but he couldn't pull it off, and instead grinned. Then he frowned. "What do the fans think?"

"That you were badly hurt in an altercation," Roman said. "Who it was with is not released. And, it's close enough to the truth, it's just we're letting everyone think someone went after you instead of you going after me, and that your body has been busted up, not your mind. But like I said, the fans just want you to get well and get back to the ring. So, I _know_ you aren't envious of my career."

"No," Dean admitted. "It's the other stuff, you know? You lived this... almost perfect life. And you have this perfect life now, at least outside the ring. Beautiful lady, awesome kid. And yeah, I know that doesn't justify what I did, nothing can do that. But there are times when I can't help it, I wish I had that too."

"Nothing can change your past," Roman said. "But there's no reason why you can't someday have the other stuff, the beautiful lady and the kid. Maybe even kids."

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "I guess. I just...I never found anyone I clicked with enough in that way, you know? I mean, I get plenty. I've even had relationships that extended beyond the one night stand, but I've never met anyone who could put up with me, _all_ of me. I never met anyone I cared enough to let them _know_ the real me."

_Not quite true_, Roman though, but decided to change the subject. "Look, is there anything I can do for you? The list of stuff I can bring for you is pretty limited, but anything you want, that you can have, I'll get you. Do you want anything? Need anything?"

Dean started to shake his head, but then stopped. "There's one thing-" he began, then stopped again. "Never mind, it's too much, I can't ask."

"No, you can ask anything," Roman disagreed. "And if I can, I'll get it for you."

Dean sighed. "I can't read." As he said it, his leg started doing that bouncing thing again.

For a moment, Roman thought Dean was confessing he was illiterate, but then he remembered several times when he had seen Dean reading, not just scripts or signs, but newspapers and books. "They aren't forbidding books, are they?" Roman asked. "I could have sworn I saw books on the list of acceptable items."

"No," Dean shook his head, still looking embarrassed. "They don't forbid reading, in fact, they've got an awesome library in here, lots of books. But I can't _read_ them. The words... they jumble around sometimes and I can't focus on them. Sometimes, I can't read them in the right order or something. I've tried using an index card and going line by line, but it doesn't work. It's like I can't concentrate on the words and string them together. Which is weird, because I can follow TV or the radio. I just can't seem to be able to _read_."

His leg continued to jerk and part of Roman wanted to reach out and put his hand on it and stop it, because part of his mind thought that if he stopped it, the tension would leave Dean.

"The doctor's say not to worry," Dean continued. Bounce. bounce. bounce. bounce. "That as I'm weaned off the high dosages of the meds, the concentration will come back and the ability to focus will come back, but in the meantime..." his voice trailed off. Bounce. bounce. bounce.

"Do you want me to find some books on audio for you?" Roman asked. Jessica listened to audio books when she worked out and she got them online from some place. Maybe they could get an inexpensive MP3 player and load up a bunch of them for him. It wouldn't be that difficult.

Dean shook his head. Bounce. bounce. bounce. He reached around behind him, to a window ledge, where there had been a book sitting that Roman hadn't noticed. "Would...would you read to me?" He finally looked at Roman and now that the request was out of his mouth, he started speaking rapidly. "If you can't, if you don't want to, that's fine, I'm just asking, please don't think you have to say yes, I'll be fine, but I was just wondering, aw shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you, you probably have to leave anyway, after all I put you through, I'm a total ass and I'm sorry, forget I asked." He started twisting the book in his hands as if he was going to rip it apart.

Roman reached out and grabbed the book from him, before he destroyed it. When he first heard the request, he thought it was kind-of silly, and he was going to suggest that he would get whatever books Dean wanted on audio, he'd put a rush order on it if he had to. The idea of reading to a fully grown adult was kind of embarrassing.

Then, as Dean struggled to give him a way out of it, rushing to tell him it was okay, Roman realized that it had taken so much for Dean to ask and was it _really_ all that silly? If Dean were blinded in some way, wouldn't Roman have read to him without hesitation? So, what was the difference here? The fact that Dean's problems were in his mind rather than his body? The end results were the same, Dean couldn't read."I've got a couple hours before I have to leave," Roman said, looking at the thickness of the book. "But I can get started with it, then I'll see if we can't get you an audio version, or-" he hesitated, realizing that it wasn't just that Dean wanted to hear the book, he also wanted the interaction. One of the most personal things you could do with another human being was read to them or be read to by them. He had noticed that with Leah, even noticed it with his younger siblings when he was growing up. Something about two people sharing a story together, created an air of intimacy, as if for the time you were reading, you wove an invisible blanket around you that kept the two of you in your own world together. "-if you can wait that long between readings, I'll read it to you when I visit."

Dean's eyes lit up like a child being given an unexpected present, for no reason other than the giver saying, "I just wanted to get this for you, I thought you would enjoy it." "Really?"

"Yeah." Roman stood up and went over to the couch. "Move over." He sat down as Dean moved further down the couch, giving him room but not too much room. Enough for Roman to be comfortable, but their shoulders were touching.

Without even being aware he was doing it at first, Roman found himself putting his arm around Dean, as if he were nothing but a child. And without thinking about it, Dean moved closer and put his head on Roman's shoulder. And it didn't feel weird, or unnatural. The perpetual twelve year old boy, that lived in Roman's mind, that was sexually immature, that probably lived in the mind of every adult male, wasn't going, "Oh, dude, that's_ so_ gay," because twelve year old boys had no clue what tact was. But on this, the twelve year old was silent and Roman was glad for that.

_Maybe __Dean __**has**__ regressed,_ Roman wondered. _Maybe something __**did**__ die in that room that night, but it wasn't me, thank god. And it wasn't Dean, but maybe something dark died... and maybe it died so something better could be born from the ashes. Something that can be nurtured and cared for, and allowed to grow up better._

_That's_ when the twelve year old found his voice,_ and maybe, if you get a little more sappy, we can make our own maple syrup. Cut the crap and read the book you pussy._ Because sometimes twelve year old boys knew how to cut to the heart of the matter.

So, Roman opened the book and began reading:

_*"My name is Odd Thomas, though in this age where fame is the alter at which most people worship, I am not sure why you should care who I am or that I exist..." _

_The End._

* * *

><p><strong>*<span>Credit first<span>: The book Roman is reading to Dean is_ Odd Thomas_, by _Dean Koontz_. And if you haven't read it, you _really_ need to, the series is miles ahead of Twilight and most other "let's deal with the supernatural" books. Yes, I know, Dean Koontz is the guy your parents read, but the Odd Thomas series is fantastic. The lines I used were reprinted without permission, shame on me. **

_**Thank you's and author notes: **_

**Iremmy:**** Thank you! **

**Guest****: Well, now you know what Roman did. **

**Just a Reader****: Yes, I understand exactly what you're saying when it comes to Roman Reigns. I don't get all the hate the man is generating either. Yes, the interview came off poorly, but I've seen a whole lot worse. **** There are a lot of things that go on, a certain family rivalry comes to mind that are way worse than that interview and I don't see everyone going, "We need to fire them RIGHT NOW!" **

**As for your compliments on my writing, aw, thank you. This was a weird story because I hated writing it, and I enjoyed writing it. Jon demanding Roman give him a BJ, well, I figure it was in part to see how far he could push Roman. And, I figure deep down inside, Dean's a little bit envious of Roman. Not career wise, but the fact that Roman has this great woman, great kid, great family. I didn't find the way to dive into it more, but I figure after a lot of therapy, Dean's going to realize that. **

**_Author's Notes:_ Yeah, this one is weird. I'm sorry for that. Usually I try to keep my writing on a lighter note, although readers of my story Scars may beg to differ. But, at least Scars ended in a happier place. Although, even though Dean is in a mental hospital, I think this book does end in a happier place than where it began. **

**And yeah, there is a huge debate on whether multiple personality disorder is a real condition. When the woman who became known to the word as, "Sybil" finally admitted to having her therapist manipulate her into multiple personality, that the books and such were pretty much false, that blew the lid on the whole disorder. Me, personally? I believe it can exist, but I believe it's much rarer than we think. I also believe it's been overused as a defense. Do I think Dean/Jon in this story had/has it? Yeah, I do. Not a classic textbook case, because he confesses to Roman that part of him felt he was watching this happening and part of him felt he did do everything. I think Dean/Jon had a breakdown. I also think that when you're supposed to be crazy, when crazy is your calling card, it gets really hard to ask for help. I think the reason why Dean/Jon went after Roman was because he knew Roman would get him help, but he had to really _really_ prove he needed it. I also think he picked Roman because if he'd done it to anyone else, that gun might have been loaded. **

**This story can be partially blamed on Betagirl. What I _wanted_ to do was to sit down and write a sequel to Chasing the Moonlight. I couldn't do it, I kept stalling. I tried to write scenes for what I wanted in the story, figuring I could string them together, but that wasn't working either. I finally told Betagirl I was blocked.**

**She responded as she usually does, not just with sympathy and kindness, but with a challenge. "Write a fiction based on a song," she said.**

**I scoffed, because I'm like that. "It takes a lot of skill to pull off a good songfic, because it's always the same plot. Character is going through something and listens to the song and realizes how it relates to their situation. Can it be done well? Yes, but that's rare and it's done by someone other than me. So, stop it, I'm not writing songfics." **

**And she rolled her eyes at me and gave me one of her special looks. "Did I _tell_ you to write a songfic? I did not. I asked you to write a story based on a song."**

**"So," I said, knowing I couldn't get her off of this, "What song?"**

**"A random one," she explained. "And this is how you will pick it." And she laid out the rules to me, and I admit, I was interested. And I'm going to give you folks the rules, in case you want to give it a shot too. Is it challenging? Yes. But, at least for me, I found it a good challenge as it got my brain working in ways I never thought it could. **

**5/4/3/2/****1**** Song Challenge**

**5: Go to your history on You Tube. Pick the 5th song you listened to recently (No, you can't count those Shield videos you've watched eight hundred times, or those adorable Chibi wrestling videos that are so cute they'll give you diabetes, but who cares, the insulin shots are worth it.) Scroll until you get to the 5th _song_ you've listened to and click on it.**

**4: When you get to the page with the 5th song, go to the bottom and count up to the 4th song they recommend. (At the right. Again, ignore the Shield and wrestling and any other videos they might recommend that do not contain songs) That will be the song you will use for the story. If instead of one song, the 4th recommendation is an entire album, you use the 2nd song on the album as your inspiration. **

**3: You must use at least 3 lines in the song, in your story, whatever lines you want. **

**2: If You Tube recommends an entire album instead of just one song, you pick the 2nd song on the album. If just one song is recommended, you must use a line from the 2nd verse. **

**1: Title of the song must be the title of the story.**

**Additional rules? No fair quoting the song as a song to get those three lines. You can't have, "And Roman remembered hearing this song on the radio Blah blah blah/ blah blah blah/blah blah blah." or, "And Seth turned on the radio and the sounds of Blah blah blah/blah blah blah/blah blah blah filled the room." Or even, "The words to that song came into his head, "Blah blah blah blah/blah blah blah blah/blah blah blah." That is called _cheating_. The lines must fit into the story as smoothly as possible. The ultimate goal should be that if someone is reading the story who hasn't heard the song, they won't have a clue what lines came from the song, or what lines are your writing. You can use more than three lines, and if you do, you can give yourself extra pats on the back. But you must use at least three lines. Same with the title. Your story title has to be the title of the song, but you need to also try to make it fit the story, not just have it be a random title that doesn't fit anything.**

**(So far Readers, do you know what lines came from a song in this story? Care to guess?)**

**At the end, you need to put in your author's notes who does the song so if people want they can look up the song themselves and decide if you passed or failed. Your story should not_ just_ have the lines in it, but try to give a similar vibe, that the song has. Since not everyone gets the same vibe from the song, this one is left more to the writer to figure out if they succeeded or not. But if others agree with you, then yeah, that's worth more pats on the back.**

**The idea seemed interesting enough, so I set to work. I've been listening to a lot of older stuff lately, because for some reason, my brain has decided that it can write Dean best when listening to older stuff, stuff my _parents_ listened to such as Neil Young, CSNY, Deep Purple, Alice Cooper, CCR, etc. I don't know why my brain only wants to listen to that stuff when I write Dean. It might have something to do with the promo of Moxley singing Sweet Caroline, but Neil Diamond isn't on my list of "Music that inspires me to write Dean," so I don't think that's it. But for some reason, when I'm playing this older stuff, that's when the Dean Ambrose who lives in my head, comes out and talks to me. Anyway, so when I got to my inspiration song, it turned out to be from an older (like from the 1960s older!) group called _The Guess Who_. The group isn't totally unfamiliar to me, my Dad had one or two of their greatest hits albums. But I knew them by songs like "Share the Land," "Laughing," and "Undone." Their songs always had a folksy hippie vibe to them, at least to me. **

**Well, the song I got was one I hadn't heard before by them, called Rain Dance. And I listened. And it was really, really, _really _creepy. I don't know if you, dear reader, would find it creepy, I've talked to some folks who have listened to it and some agree, some don't, but I found the song _really_ creepy. It's typical _Guess Who_ for the most part and the second half is _very_ typical _Guess Who_, it's got that, 'hey, let's all plant a tree and sing a song!' feeling to it. But the first part? Yeah, creepy. And, if that wasn't enough, the creepiest line in there, not only for the words, but for how it was sung in relation to the song, was able to pretty much inspire 90% of this story for me. **

**The line?**

**"Where'd you get the gun, Jon?" **

**(The written out lyrics spell it "John" but since I don't have the original lyrics from the band, I think it's up to interpretation how Jon can be spelled.) Yeah, random song and it has a line using the name of one of the characters I want to write about. **

**So, that's how this all started. _Where_ did _Jon_ get the gun? _Who_ was asking him where he got the gun? _Why_ did he have a gun? _What _was he going to do with the gun? And, if Jon had a gun, where was Dean? And, as every writer knows, once those questions get into your head, you have to start answering them. **

**This story violated one of my biggest rules, which is that I try to write fanfiction that if the character creators and/or main portrayer ever read it (No, I don't think they ever will. I hope the actors who play the characters in this story have better things to do than to hunt down my clumsily written fanfiction.) that they wouldn't be horrified, and that maybe they could even see the character doing most of the things I have them doing.**

**In most of my stories, I feel I do okay with that. Even in Scars, the Mox promos hint around at such a lousy childhood, that I think it's not too hard to imagine that happening to Moxley/ Ambrose. The other stories? Yeah, I think they fall right into the lines of, "Things the characters would do." **

**This one? Roman, I think I got him. He's not a wuss and I hope no one thinks I portrayed him as one, but when you have a child, your whole perspective on your life changes, or at least it does for every_ real_ man I've ever known. (For every real woman I've known too, but women are less likely to need to be reminded don't play hero when it could cost you your life) It's not about you and your choices, it's about how your choices will affect that tiny human being that you've chosen to bring into this world. So yeah, I don't think he would have tried to play hero unless he knew 100% that he was going to succeed. Because he didn't want his daughter to grow up without a daddy. That doesn't make him a wuss, if he had recognized a real chance, he would have taken it. It's just that Dean wasn't giving him one. **

**Dean? There's the rub. I am not sure if the actor/sports entertainer that plays Dean Ambrose, that _really_ created Dean Ambrose would understand what I've done at all. And for that, I almost didn't publish this on FF net.**

**But Betagirl, and my S/O told me to do it. And both of them told me that in their opinion, I did more than pass the challenge. **

**If this story bothered you, I'm sorry, That wasn't my intent, which was why I put warnings on it. I know that it's hard to imagine Dean being that crazy mean to the one person who has stuck by him. But yeah, the way life works, sometimes we do the meanest stuff to the ones who deserve it the least. **

**And if you're still upset? Tell yourself, "It's just fanfiction, it only exists in Willow's fictional world, not mine." And, feel free to write me an angry review telling me how upset you are. I'll understand. I wasn't very happy with myself when I wrote this.**

**Then, have a cup of tea. Because tea can fix just about anything. **

**Thank you for taking this journey with me.**

**Willow**


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